


Mycroft and Associate Two

by MemoryCrow



Series: Mycroft and Associate [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Romance, Character studies, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Sex Addiction, Smut, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 18:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: *That the liaison continued was a surprise.*(Just continuing a recent obsession)





	Mycroft and Associate Two

That the liaison continued was a surprise. No one could be more surprised than Mycroft Holmes. Well, no one else knew of his relationship with Jim Moriarty, but – had they known – their surprise could not match his.

Or… maybe it could. His secrecy was not without reason.

He was hooked. Possibly addicted. He was certainly smart enough to recognize the addictive elements for what they were; unwise and unwell. Perhaps it was not the chemical high to which Sherlock was vulnerable, but it was surely as dangerous. Yet, here he was.

His body pained him and his mind buzzed with distraction when he went days with no sign of Moriarty. With Moriarty’s reappearance, he felt well again, and almost clear. Drug or no drug, one could see the addict’s behavior. The potency of the desired fix.

He could not quell his curiosity about Moriarty, nor could he get around a certain disbelief that Moriarty kept coming back. Moriarty had his own drive, his own addiction. How odd it seemed that it was Mycroft who could appease him.

Lying in bed on his back, Moriarty flopped his arm across Mycroft’s chest. “Do my arm.” He purred.

It was one of his comforts, a feather-light raking of fingertips, up and down the inside of his arm. Sensitive, the skin there; the underbelly of the arm, a landscape that housed a vulnerability of veins.

Mycroft complied, sleepy. It seemed to lull him as much as it did Moriarty, and something in the petting made him more aware he regarded Moriarty as a creature. A faun in his bed; perhaps its hooves muddied the bedclothes, its ragged fur left an animal scent that vacillated between arousing and disturbing. A nixy-boy, crawled out of dark waters and trapped within his own atmosphere of cold, wanting the warmth of a human body.

A pooka, spookily cuddlesome; a demon lurking inside.

Up and down his fingertips lightly raked, Moriarty’s eyes closed. Mycroft’s eyes were heavy, nearly closed, but he watched. He found he preferred this version of Moriarty. A demanding little shit, yes, but there was far less a sense of acting, posturing at work. His nakedness was revealing in more than the physical, his tightly wired body, the tense energy of it relaxed. His hair became messy and invited touch.

“I love the way you touch me.” He murmured. Mycroft had to smile. He touched as he was instructed to touch, as Moriarty demanded. “It feels less lonely when you touch me.”

Was Moriarty lonely? Mycroft watched the rise and fall of his chest, listened to the hushed whisper of his breath as he drifted towards sleep. His pulse was a regular butterfly-flutter near the base of his neck. It was difficult not to romanticize him, especially after sex. He seemed pretty to Mycroft. Pretty lips, pursed in a soft way that said, _sleep_. Pretty, dark eyelashes on a shadowy rough of cheekbone, carved with a blunt chisel. Something heartrending about his forehead, his compact body.

His hand, at the end of the arm laying over Mycroft, was warm. His fingers curled in and, every so often, made a little jump.

It was different to think of Moriarty as lonely. On the one hand, well. Mycroft knew all about it. He knew his own isolation as well as Sherlock’s, before John Watson was so solidly in place. Men who were alone, living within their own minds, perhaps trapped there. Maybe the notion of Moriarty feeling lonely wasn’t unusual at all.

But, on the other hand, Moriarty projected a feeling of coldness, self-sufficiency. No one gets in. Although his dark eyes were often alluring to Mycroft, they could also go eerily dead. Flat, or rather; hollow. His face could be an unblinking mask, all the more startling when it was suddenly, often perversely animated.

To say he pushed others away was a joke, an understatement of large proportion. Others were useless, except in the moments they were useful. Ultimately, they were expendable. People had been killed with what appeared to be a shocking thoughtlessness. A shrug; _oh, dear_. Would Mycroft end up as one of them?

This, too, made Mycroft see Moriarty as a creature, and not one he should be petting. He should harbor no illusion that he could control The Creature. It had to stop, he cautioned himself. Then addiction kicked-in. It was too hard to stop, too painful.

And, look at him, nearly asleep. Trusting. Belly exposed, throat exposed, crook of the arm, wrist… every point of vulnerability exposed, awareness dulled with sex and the sleep that came rushing up after.

He was too pretty this way, even sweet. He trusted Mycroft to be comforting and not a messenger of death – he who lived in a house of Bond-like weaponry.

Perhaps Moriarty was lonely.

 

 

 

It was another thing, altogether, to see Moriarty while on the job.

I’ve gone soft, Mycroft thought. As Sherlock warned, he was slipping. He should not have been surprised to see Jim Moriarty, yet he was. One moment his eyes, usually sharp, scanned over the groups of people who milled about the Tower of London. He saw nothing amiss, nothing that obviously substantiated  intelligence regarding planned terrorist activity. Parents and children, excitement over ravens and sculptures of ancient beasts. Morbid fascination with a history of beheadings.

The next… he was looking right at Moriarty, _directly_ at him, when he hadn’t seen him at all. He hadn’t been there. Even looking, _seeing_ , it had taken a heartbeat to register.

It was not even as though Moriarty had donned a clever disguise, a ruse at which Sherlock was so gifted, it irritated and fascinated Moriarty. No. he simply looked… normal. He blended. He moved with the sheep, one of them, and Mycroft felt uncertain he would have spotted Moriarty – his _bedmate_ – but for the fact that Moriarty made eye-contact.

It was _his_ choice; he’d revealed himself to Mycroft this way, deliberately.

It was galling, for Mycroft understood he might never have recognized, never have seen Moriarty. But, he did see. Eyes met, and the suspended heartbeat happened, a moment where Mycroft, without thought, heard the ocean in his ears, in his skull.

Then clarity kicked-in. His head cleared but his heart raced. What was he going to do?

It must be a test, on a personal level. What he _must_ do was make Moriarty’s presence known to others on his team; security of the free world and what-have-you. Here was the thing out of place, here was the element they were all looking for, the detail that gave weight to Government (or slightly outsourced) intelligence. Time to start ferreting-out others, accomplices… software damaged by a virus or otherwise breached, explosives tucked into nooks and crannies. He had only to say the word and hyper-vigilance would fall into place. Moriarty would be waylaid. While only under general suspicion, nothing much could be done with him. Yet, he could be set off-course, plans set astray. Surely he was not a mere tourist.

Good Lord, he looked so young. Mycroft, already squirming with what he needed to do, felt a right pervert. Jim Moriarty seemed a regular fellow, no real agenda. Jeans, trainers, ballcap. Youthful and benign, no obvious defenses. Mycroft might even describe him as soft-faced, which felt like a shock. Moriarty gave him a subtle smile and it was difficult not to smile back.

But, he did not. He kept his face stern. Unlike the bouncy boy who stared about in mild curiosity, perhaps a young dad, distracted by a game in his earbuds whilst wife and kids endeavored to absorb local culture, Mycroft was dressed to the nines. As always. Custom tailored suit, the dangled chain of his pocket watch; he stood tall with hands in trouser pockets, affecting a casual yet serious demeanor.

He was dithering on the inside. It was becoming morosely clear, the price of addiction, the fogginess of his thinking, of late. He had a lover – buggar, an utterly bizarre thought while looking at boy-Jim. He had a lover and his lover was testing him. If he did his job, if he did what he was supposed to do, he failed the test. Then what? What would become of the relationship? And just how accurate was the intelligence gathered regarding terrorism; what was its goal? How deep did the network go? Would he be looking at Jim Moriarty’s arrest, should such a thing prove possible? Time in the courts? Perhaps his near-do-well lover, blown to smithereens?

How would he, the addict, carry on without his fix?

To pass the test was impossible. A heist or some such was one thing; people up and dying quite another. National security and for lack of it, collateral damage. Moriarty seemed unconcerned about such things. These were the things Mycroft was meant to prevent.

Suddenly abashed, the thought occurred that Sherlock would have spotted Moriarty immediately. This would all be proceeding very differently were it not himself doing the surveillance, his perception colored by sex, intrigue. He saw Moriarty as part demon, part maelstrom; all need. He was unprepared for this carefree boy, sly and smug just beneath the surface.

Moriarty’s eyes held his, then unexpectedly, made a subtle little motion; up, to the side. The slyness that Mycroft took to be a component of blatant crime changed its flavor. Moriarty’s eyes motioned to the loo; his mouth quirked a ghost of a smile, lips almost pursed. There was amusement in his eyes. Was there triumph?

Maybe, Mycroft thought. Perhaps he could handle this situation on his own. He could distract Moriarty, himself. And if others were involved, what then? It was Moriarty’s pattern; set the pieces in motion and stay out of the fray.

Oh, fucking hell. It was a dangerous game, as his involvement had been from the start. He shouldn’t play it. He should stay out of the fray, himself, as was his pattern. Alert the right people, walk away. He’d likely never see Moriarty again, unless in an official capacity.

Moriarty raised a brow, his eyes suddenly and concerningly empty, then headed for the loo. Mycroft, completely still, writhed on the inside in agony. After a long moment he swallowed. He dulled his thoughts and followed.

 

 

 

 

The loo was nice, very posh. Artful tile, elegant lighting, a huge vase of fresh flowers before a gilded mirror. Still, it was a loo. Not what Mycroft would consider a point of rendezvous.

As soon as Mycroft stepped inside, Moriarty was at him. He locked the door and pressed Mycroft against it, his hands urgent at Mycroft’s belt. He said, “Hello, sexy.”

Startled, Mycroft blurted, “ – Jim!”

Moriarty looked up, smiling. His eyes were deep. That was startling, too, for in the general public, they’d first been flat, then filled with something meant for Mycroft, alone; the slyness, humor. Now they were filled with all that Mycroft saw in his bed. Need, want. Moriarty’s edge of lust was frank and hurtfully sultry.

“You were dead-sexy out there, spotting me.” He all but panted. His hand, warm and nimble, worked its way into well-cut trousers and silk boxers. “Did you enjoy it, Mycroft? Playing? When your eyes met mine. When you realized.”

Had he enjoyed it? It was hard to say. It hurt a little… tightness in his chest, pulse too rapid at his throat and belly. That moment when the world fell away, the ocean a muted roar in his head. And then the sharp pins-and-needles feeling when it all came rushing back. The feeling of danger, awareness of his own perverseness, as Moriarty held his eyes and almost smiled. The smile was in his eyes, changing them.

In fact, it was much the same hurtfulness he’d come to associate with foreplay, anticipation. Being seduced by the vampish darkness of Moriarty in come-hither mode. Perhaps he _had_ enjoyed it.

He bit back a moan as he quickly hardened in Moriarty’s playful hand. Here he was, a top official about to be brought to disgrace by his own idiocy. He was no more than the men called out by young, pretty interns when there had been a lapse in judgment, an abuse of power. He was a portrait of dignity who would be brought low, then step down from his post, all the while issuing humble apology to the revolted public for having shared lewd selfies of his cock, online. No longer part of a league of extraordinary gentlemen, this was the league to which he now belonged; Priests and altar boys, presidents and porn stars, wealthy, married men and ambitious – or simply present girls. Or boys. A little reminder that no matter the level of power, intelligence, morality or authority, all may be reduced to greedy, animal instinct, no more clever than the urgency of message traveling from genitals to brain and back again. Bloated and glossy with ego.

An addict, discovered. Publicly brought to light.

Fairly certain he lied, he said, “No, I didn’t enjoy it. I’m not enjoying this.”

Moriarty scoffed, his face dramatically converting to comedy. The fondle of his hand stated the obvious.

“ _I_ enjoyed it.” he purred. “Watching you, before you were aware of me. That serious brow.” One hand rose and caressed over Mycroft’s brow, light fingers, rough in texture. The hand traveled to his mouth, fingertips lingering at his lips. Moriarty’s fingers smelled of soap and cigarettes, maybe crisps. They smelled of his warm, animal scent, enough to make Mycroft wonder what he’d been up to. “Then you _saw_ me. I felt it… everywhere.”

The hand moved around and cupped the back of Mycroft’s neck. Moriarty brought their mouths together in a kiss.  It was a soft thing, a breathy lingering of lips, tongues barely touching at the tips. Mycroft fell into it, got lost in it; the softness and searching, his eyes weighted. Moriarty’s breath was urgent little huffs and moans, his hand in an intoxicating, teasing play at Mycroft’s cock. Time was suspended.

Reality intruded. Pulling back, Mycroft murmured, “Why not just do this at home, Jim?” He gave himself pause, speaking of his home as if it was shared. “What are you up to? You clearly knew I’d be here.”

“Mmm.” Moriarty pursued Mycroft’s mouth with his own. “I wondered what you’d do. I set it up to see.”

“So… you’re wasting government time and resources.”

“The government does it all the time.” Moriarty’s mouth pouted, reasonable.

Mycroft smirked. Still.

Before he could muster a better – a proper response, Moriarty sank to knees. He had Mycroft’s cock out, a startling, fleshy and ruddy sight amidst so much fine weave of clothing, the surrounding of sterile elegance. Or, perhaps the loo _was_ where one expected to see the sudden dangle of a cock, Mycroft considered, however he wasn’t used to seeing it in quite such an uproar. Looking down, he was unprepared for the sight of himself. An animal part, weirdly raw; it ached and throbbed, hot in Moriarty’s hand.

Moriarty opened his mouth and took Mycroft in, and for a moment, Mycroft couldn’t see at all. Vision blurred and reality took another little dip, fell away. He was only breath and a hush of pleasure-pain, internal wires gone slightly mad. The feeling of wet, warm pressure, the tease of tongue sent a series of sensations throughout his pelvic floor, a heady, hot tension in his torso and limbs. His pelvis arched, lower spine pushing away from the door that supported him, and he heard Moriarty’s soft moan.

It brought him back. Vision returned and he looked down at Moriarty’s upturned face. If the sight of his bared cock was a surprising thing, it paled in comparison to the sight of himself, sliding in and out of Moriarty’s mouth. Vision fueled physical sensation so that little pulses of pleasure, sharp and angst-ridden, lit his insides with a steady rhythm. He became aware of his own breath, a hushed gasp. Moriarty breathed through his nose, heavy and urgent.

God, his face. His dark eyes held storms and looked almost angry, his brow beneath the cap intense. His cheeks hollowed, flushed. How dirty Mycroft felt. He towered over, so well dressed. He felt as if he fed himself to an urchin, a guttersnipe. He knew better, but the felling persisted, dreamily harried by Moriarty’s looks, both soft and ruffian. That he didn’t, likely _could not_ know this person surfaced and then re-submerged. That he compromised everything for want of this person nagged, making him clench his teeth.

Moriarty closed his eyes, growing more serious about his suck. His head bobbed. An edgy note, a wistful contraction seized and released in the dark cavern that was Mycroft’s body, alive with feeling and helpless, panicked within an alien setting. He brought his hand to Moriarty’s jaw and held it there, thumb caressing up to the lush mouth that ravished him, held him hotly captive.

Eyes opening, Moriarty kept his gaze. For a moment he let go, the plush wetness of his mouth a shrieking absence in Mycroft’s skull. He watched as Moriarty’s mouth opened – obscenely wide. His tongue extended- obscenely long. He held Mycroft’s cock in his palm and pumped it, the head a ripe, desperate thing, feverish over Moriarty’s tongue, barely touching.

“Oh, God!” Mycroft nearly sobbed.

It was too much. The almost-anger was back in Moriarty’s eyes, difficult to interpret. His hand moved fast, a strangled sound of need in his throat. Mycroft felt his hips thrust, meeting the stroke on his saliva-slick cock. A rust-color was edging at the periphery of his vision, shutting out all but himself and Moriarty. It closed in, darkening the room.

He brought both hands to Moriarty’s face and Moriarty’s eyes fluttered closed again; dark eyelashes, pretty thing, Mycroft thought. Pretty, dirty thing. Moriarty’s mouth took him once more, a firm suck, so slippery and relentless, everything within Mycroft drew up. His insides were pulled tight.

He knew this feeling; he’d built himself up to it; yet, on the job, away from home, there was something frightful in it. Even fateful. He heard his gasp, the moan in his chest swallowed. His head banged against the door as his body convulsed, oblivious now to pain. Pain was pleasure; pleasure caused pain.

His insides squeezed and released, blackness rushing into all of his hollows, light filling his head in a flash. He felt himself empty into Moriarty’s mouth, harsh spurts that throbbed in time with his pronounced heartbeat. He felt Moriarty strain to swallow him down, soften to milk him.

The rush of the release left Mycroft weak, legs trembling. Though he regained a measure of composure, he felt weepy. Had he been alone he might have cried, uncertain as to why and humiliated, even in private.

Little by little the room came back. Vision cleared, things became more solid. He’d been in his high, he realized. Hopeless addict. Normal life was returning.

Moriarty let him go. Surprisingly sweet, he placed little kisses on the softening shaft, the sensitive head. Everything jumped under his touch. He stared up at Mycroft, a puppy-look of love, desire. The look lodged in Mycroft’s chest; in his throat, sore with unshed tears.

A wicked humor slipped into Moriarty’s eyes, face still so boyish. He sniggered, naughty school-boy telling a dirty joke, furtive and rude. In his odd voice, low and curled into itself, he said, “The Iceman _Cometh_.”

 

 

 

 

Mycroft lingered in the loo for awhile after Moriarty slipped away. Jim would be a ghost out there, Mycroft knew. It was as simple as keeping his eyes cast down, occasionally glancing at his phone. He could be checking game scores, the Dow, the FT-SE 100, a shadow network of operatives. Surprisingly inventive pornography. Mycroft had little doubt Moriarty would pass unnoticed, should it be his desire.

On the other hand, Mycroft might have been missed. Need he claim a sudden and embarrassing attack of nature that detained him in the loo? (It wasn’t far off the mark). He checked his pocket watch; well, perhaps not. It felt as though time had stopped, the encounter had gone on endlessly, his own indecencies catalogued, annotated and filed away by angels or other beings whose responsibility it was to keep such inventory. In fact, only a few minutes had passed. Moriarty had whipped him into a quick frenzy and wasted no time in releasing him.

He leaned heavily to a marbled countertop and looked at himself in the mirror. A warm and pleasant amber lighting moved over his face and revealed little of recent events. Mycroft looked austere and disciplined. The Iceman, lurking in shadow.

He also looked like a villain. Certainly Sherlock had noted as much, now and again. The expanse of his temples, his long nose that hooked at the end and eyes that narrowed and calculated. And he _was_ calculating. He could grow a thin moustache and spend some quality time, fondling it.

He knew Moriarty to be a dangerous man, one he could not control. He’d seen him have moments of coming unhinged that provided glimpses into the deep well of darkness he housed. The mirror, however, told a different story.

In storybooks, plays; in gothic tales and those written down by wishful women gone twisted, opiate afflicted artists, Jim Moriarty was the face of the damaged child. Hurt, wounded eyes, bruise-like shadows beneath. A soft blur of brutal mouth that kept secrets, only later in life learning to sneer, to create defenses.

It was Mycroft who looked the part of the villain. Cold. Shrewd. Eccentrically unattractive and conveniently wealthy; from his height his shadow fell upon the people and events he puppeteered.

He washed his hands, a tad too thorough, and blotted his face with a damp towel. He hoped he didn’t smell of sex or villainy. He drew himself up – yes, fly zipped, all evidence neatly tucked away – and made his face into a mask of pedantic supremacy.

Time to be an Elder Holmes.

 

 

 

 

It was later than he’d like when he arrived home. At once, he was aware his home had been breached. He was not alone.

Ballcap on a foyer table, trainers beneath the table. At least it was tidy. Jeans folded over a wing chair, belt still in the loops. Windbreaker dangling from a coat rack, a slack scarecrow. Less tidy, down a long hall of paintings and weaponry, both antique and very modern, masquerading as art; socks and t-shirt on the floor. Mycroft picked them up as went along. He reached his bedroom, the door slightly pulled-to. Boxer briefs hung on the doorknob, heathered-red. Cute.

With a forefinger, he pushed the heavy, wooden door of his bedroom open. It swung wide, and there was Moriarty. Naked.

He lay on his belly, the bed still made-up. His legs crossed at the ankle and he was propped up on his forearms. A book was open, between.

Looking up at Mycroft, face unreadable, he gave a sing-song, two-syllable, “ _Hi_ -eye.”

Mycroft’s stomach growled. He hadn’t yet had supper. The timing of his belly’s demand was amusing to Moriarty; light danced in his eyes.

“Miss me?”

“I don’t recall giving you a key.” Or a pass code. Or the code to disable the cameras.

“Remiss on your part, my dear Holmes. I took matters into my own hands.”

“So I see.”

“Where have you _been_? I’ve been waiting for hours. All on me lonesome.”

“Rifling through my personals?”

In answer, Moriarty held up the book – one of several personal journals. The prat. Mycroft scowled and Moriarty’s smile grew large.

“In fact, I was stuck at work, Jim, my chaotic friend. Your little playtime had hearts a-flutter. There much fall-out with which to contend.”

“I’m touched that you call me friend. _And_ chaotic. You’re a sweetheart, Mycroft, no matter what everyone says.”

Mycroft took three long strides to the bed, leaned over and slapped Moriarty hard, on the swell of his bare bum. It was a loud, echoing sound, immediately followed by a weird blurt of laughter from Moriarty. His body bucked a little.

“That wasn’t meant to amuse.” Mycroft said, gruff.

The laughter subdued, but Moriarty still smiled. He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft and lifted his bum, hips tilted. Cheeky.

“Do it again, daddy. Let’s see if it’ll take.”

Wretch. Git. Troubling little snarl of virulence. Mycroft slapped again, hard enough to leave a red hand print, to hurt his own hand. Moriarty yelped, hips in a little jump, but also gasped. A swoon, stage-worthy.

“Oh, love. Your touch is bliss. You mustn’t stop.”

 _I’m rewarding him_ , Mycroft thought. He straightened his posture, standing tall. His scowl deepened. Moriarty was having a good time, as he tended to do. He was Br’er Rabbit and Mycroft was a briar patch.

“I think not.” He said. “get up and get dressed. I’m in no mood.”

Moriarty rolled to his back. He sang, “ _Bor_ -ring,” which was disturbingly like Sherlock. The delivery and the nudity were different. Mostly. “I don’t see why you’re in a snit, Mycroft. _Mykey_. You’re not the one who got so very excited and then was left, high and dry.”

“No. I was the one… ambushed. Attacked. Leched upon. Compromised.”

Moriarty’s hand moved slowly down his torso. His legs spread, cock half-hard. His look was disapproving. “Oh. Poor thing. Look at it, in a tizzy. _Bless_ it.”

Why? Why must this be the addiction? Why had it waited until relatively late in life to manifest, and _this_ was the manifestation?

“I know you can’t resist me.” Moriarty purred, his voice low. “Why do you try? Look at me… I’m here for whatever you wish.”

His eyes went deep, his hand found purchase between his legs and pet. Mycroft watched, cursing the dither that once more took his belly. The hesitation, that he paused and stared said everything.

He barely had control over himself, much less The Creature.

They watched one another, one naked and in a self-created, luxurious state of hedonism; the other in carnal trance, wholly distracted by that seen as sensuous, shameless, impure and horribly fetching. Mycroft simultaneously felt desire and yet a fear of loss, so that his lust became barbed, his relationship with it distressing. He wondered what drove Moriarty to be naked for him, to show desire. Vulnerability. To gaze at him, feeling the return watchfulness as touch.

Moriarty rose to his knees and knee-walked to the edge of the bed, cock in the lead. He put off heat; it blanketed over Mycroft and deepened his trance, and he showed little resistance when Moriarty reached for him, took hold of his tie and pulled him over. His eyes closed and his mouth opened to Moriarty’s, the connection – as ever it had been – a relief.

“I have such a soft spot for you.” Moriarty breathed. “It’s very alarming.”

Mycroft sighed into the kiss. Moriarty’s voice was ever a labyrinthine thing to him, its own creature. It was more than one voice at once, layers of voice that swallowed one another and birthed something that was, by turns, warm or alienated, restless with a madness that felt familiar. His tongue folded around the word, ‘alarming’, shaping it into faerie tale or forgotten myth. Like so much of Moriarty, his voice was dark.

Oh, how he romanticized. Hopeless, like the addict.

His hands roamed; soft, hot skin over muscle and bone, parts that gave and parts that did not. Moriarty’s hands worked at his belt, his tie, full of suggestion. They fingered about the tie, its knot, feeling and ardent. As Mycroft began a teasing stroke at Moriarty’s cock, Moriarty put the same touch to the tongue of Mycroft’s belt, hanging long and salacious. A slow stroke, not palpable on Mycroft’s skin and yet he was aware of it; it was somehow felt within his body. It brought a moan to his lips, fed into Moriarty’s mouth.

Moriarty pushed off his jacket and discarded his tie. He said, “Leave the rest on.” Gruff, breathless.

It wasn’t the first such request, and Mycroft again wondered what drove him. A bit of an exhibitionist, Moriarty. Yet he was secretive in the extreme. He revealed much to Mycroft of sexuality and of little else.

He pulled Mycroft down to the bed; disheveled, cock out yet still finely clothed. Mycroft moved his body over Moriarty’s, feverish and eager, hips moving together, sensitive parts teased against sensitive parts. The kiss was eating him from the inside, burning him up. The urgency of his tongue, of his lips was like fire.

He was fairly certain he would not make it out of this association alive.

 

 

 

 

“The Napoleon of Crime.” Sherlock mused, as obsessed as Moriarty. He was impressed, while nevertheless showing an almost artistic distaste, as did Moriarty. One’s personal style rankled the other.

Mycroft wrinkled his long nose. Internally, he cringed. “Well. He _is_ short.”

Sherlock gave a peculiar look; elf eyes, lips pressed together. Lord. What was he deducing? If he only knew. Probably a mistake to make physical observations about Jim Moriarty. Aloud. To be flip.

“What?” Sherlock queried, as if Mycroft was hiding something. Which he was.

“What do you mean, ‘what’?”

“What are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing, Sherlock.” Everything. So much. Catastrophic personal drama with mammoth potential for betrayal on several levels, both familial and as a countryman.

“You’re being very strange, today.”

“According to you, I’m always strange.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Sherlock agreed. He appeared to be letting it go, but Mycroft knew better. A seed, a gleam was still in his brother’s eyes, tucked away to be looked at more closely, in private. Somewhere in the bloody mind palace, there was an overly familiar moment between Mycroft and Moriarty. _Seems desperate for my attention. Which I’m sure can be arranged_.

He should take his leave. He looked about at the flat he regarded as medium-grade squalor, but had to admit to a friendly, eccentric coziness. The mummy that was Mrs. Hudson and the rock-steady, salt-of-the-Earth, loyal unto death figure of John Watson. Somehow, despite Mycroft’s best efforts, Sherlock had little openings of spirit which allowed for connection, however awkward. He seemed to have a sneaky need for it. He’d managed to create for himself the family that would not quite assemble at home. Mycroft felt the warmth of it and it made him uneasy.

Warm hearth, a mother who shook her head but accepted when Sherlock played with body parts and became excitable over death and tragedy; a man whose role was as yet unclear to Mycroft, but who was clearly the sort of brother Sherlock would have preferred. A man who could be trusted, who had Sherlock’s back.

Looking at a scene of misfit domesticity, it occurred to Mycroft that Moriarty might be jealous of Sherlock. True jealousy, vile and poisonous, a painful ache in both blood and brain. Cardiac incident and a twisting of gut.

Moriarty and Sherlock were alike in several ways, a cold logic ever tempered by a dreamlike intuition being one of them. But, Sherlock had a place in the world, out of the shadows and in warm light. He had family and friends, those who cared for him.

Could this be said to be true of Moriarty? Could it even be said to be true of Mycroft?

 

 

 

“You always come here.” Mycroft observed. Sort of. He was nearly asleep, observation fuzzy and words quiet.

It was barbaric, the way they wore one another out. Without benefit of alcohol or sedative, they were both ruthlessly stalked by sleep, after. It nagged Mycroft’s sleep-heavy head; if not ruthless, did one have ruth? Surely he knew this.

Moriarty didn’t answer. Eyes closed, breath deep, he lay his arm over Mycroft’s torso, furred with a gingery fluff. Without further prompting, Mycroft began the light raking of fingertips Moriarty loved. He was well-trained, he realized. It was an echo of chagrin, yet he loved the hypnotic touch, too. Up and down, back and forth; lulling The Creature.

“I suppose I’ll never see where you live.”

In a cave? With Alfred and various bat-implements? In a three-bedroom, two-bath flat with a wife and two small, big-eyed children, sullen-mouthed, like daddy? In a fortified castle with an eel-infested moat and a pet dragon, guarding the treasures of the world, beneath? A bell-tower? A cage in a lab?

“It’s nicer, here.” Moriarty murmured. “Besides. I like coming to you. I get excited about it.”

“Do you?”

The curled fingers of Moriarty’s hand jumped. He was almost out. One day, Mycroft thought, he would prompt Moriarty to talk in his sleep. If only he could stay awake, himself.

Sex had an effect that was almost like trauma, he was finding. His climax caught him in an ugly state, teeth bared and voice issuing something that was not quite a growl and not quite a shout. Moriarty’s came to him almost like sobbing. Pleading to be fucked harder, his hand a fast blur at his cock, head thrown back. His voice so ragged, thick when his body finally released him.

Mycroft left bruises on Moriarty’s pale skin. Long fingers dug into hips, sharp hip bones pounded to inner thighs.

After, it felt as if an emergency crew should arrive, clinical people in scrubs who dispensed cups of hot tea and wrapped blankets around shoulders. There, there. It will be alright. Here's something to calm you.

Whether or not it would be alright could be subject to some debate.

“You should at least show me where you live.” Mycroft persisted.

At the very least. The imbalance between them had grown. Moriarty seemed to know so much. He slipped past all of Mycroft’s defenses, ever a ghost. A creature. Mycroft might be a mystery to many in his life, but Moriarty took quiet notes and unraveled him, secure in the unraveling.

Who are you, Mycroft wanted to ask? But the only answer was _Jim Moriarty._

Professor of Mathematics? Too simple an answer. Mycroft’s own mother was brilliant in that regard, yet – so far as he knew – she hadn’t killed anyone or developed a strategy for world domination. How did a Professor of Mathematics become the creature in his bed? The shadow behind very organized crime and the nemesis of his little brother, angry and alone.

Moriarty slipped into sleep without responding. His body shifted. He rolled to his side, pressing to Mycroft, belly to belly. He seemed to always crave touch. Nearness.

Well. It was something, this startling trust. Whomever, whatever he was, he could easily be dispatched in moments such as this. His vulnerability was complete, and he continued to trust Mycroft with it.

Sleep pulled Mycroft under. He dreamt that a faun had come to his bed, and the potential for magic carried a price of chaos. He turned down the bedcovers to find leaves and mud, moss and twigs. A mushroom-leaf-decay scent of forest grew thick. From the shadows, a somber pair of dark eyes kept watch while, all over London, green things emerged from brick and gravel and began to undo civilization.

The green tore the city down to rubble and then began to grow, lush and beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Scene Of The Addiction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16101464) by [intotheruins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins)




End file.
